More
by oldmule
Summary: Set soon after the beginning of S9. Told largely from Harry's point of view as he struggles to come to terms with rejection and betrayal.
1. Chapter 1

**Think I've written this before in a slightly different guise but I recently watched the start of S9 and the thought wouldn't leave me alone. So apologies for any similarities. Probably only a two or three shot.**

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The air had a cold bite. He had been out here too long, willing the wind to blow away the dirt; to wash him clean; to start again.

But he would never be clean.

Resigning wouldn't have changed a thing. That was why, yesterday, he had told Towers to disregard his letter of resignation. His head had begun to clear. Until she had said what she said.

Now what preoccupied him were all the things he should have said to her, the arguments he should have made, the words he should have found.

'More together.'

'More together.'

'We couldn't be more together than we are right now.'

It was as though she had said those words reassuringly, as though she wanted to comfort him; to reveal the benefit, the worthiness of it.

As though it was a good thought.

Bollocks!

His face was starting to feel like it belonged to someone else as the cold spread its way through nerves and muscles. But he didn't care. He didn't care that he couldn't feel his fingers. He didn't care about his job, not really, not right now.

He might as well do it though, who else was there? He was dirty already, why inflict that on somebody else? Why disillusion some other poor incumbent with death and betrayal and disappointment?

Undoubtably when he had handed the envelope to the Home Secretary he had meant it: he meant to go.

And he couldn't deny that Ros's death had started it.

It was all about the need for something more than this. Just something ... more.

Ruth.

But she had rejected him, quickly, without doubt and without hope.

And then Nicholas Blake was mentioned and that shocking piece of news tipped the scales: deceit and faith were shattered.

All he ever did was bury his best and be betrayed by his closest. There was nothing to go to work for anymore.

Ruth.

'We move on from this,' he had said to her.

As soon as he returned from Scotland, walked back onto the grid and saw her, he knew he couldn't move on. Knew he couldn't see her everyday and not feel the rejection and the frustration of a relationship that should be, but never had been.

And now never would.

On the grid she spoke to him as she always had, with the same intimacy they had for so long enjoyed where work was concerned. But what had once charmed him and reassured him, now irritated and irked. She had no right to speak for him, to make decisions that were his, no right to presume his answer. No right because they were not the one thing he so desired.

He couldn't move on from this.

It was late, the office dark, the decanter nearly empty. As he swilled back another burning mouthful he knew already that it was too much.

She stood at the door and waited for him to look up. He refused.

"Don't be here all night," she said, in that tone. Soft and gentle. Like she cared.

"Goodnight Ruth," was his only reply, still refusing to look at her.

"Goodnight Harry."

He reached for the decanter.

She hesitated.

"Harry, don't you think you've had enough?"

His eyes shot up challengingly. Who was she to tell him what to do…his wife? The irony.

He bit his tongue, said nothing and watched her walk away.

She stepped into the corridor pulling on her coat, wondering if things could ever be the same again.

A hand thumped into the wall, blocking her path.

Harry.

He smelt of whiskey, his eyes wide and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He didn't move his arm.

"More together, Ruth? We couldn't be more together…"

His words were sharp and angry as he leant close, hot breath against her cheek.

"If you want 'together', I could show you 'together'. But you don't want it. You're too afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she refuted, remaining still and calm, even though the closeness of him had her feeling far from it.

"We could be so much more, Ruth…" he whispered, "…so much. So much more than this," he flicked his eyes back towards the grid, "than just this, here."

"Harry, you've had too much to –"

"Yes, yes I have. But I'm not wrong. You are. You're wrong and you can't see it."

She felt the heat in her cheeks and the walls felt a little too close and she wished she could think about something else other than the smell of him and the nearness of him.

He moved his arm but did not step away. His head rose from beside her ear and he met her gaze with hooded, emotional eyes.

"I don't want to regret, Ruth, but I will. One day I'll walk out of here to face a gun, the countdown of a bomb, the crosshairs of a sight and in the moment I die, I'll be thinking only one thing ... 'I should have shown her'.

She was looking at him with open, curious, thoughtful eyes; eyes that didn't look away and he wanted to kiss her, to lean the few inches closer and kiss her slightly parted, moist lips.

But he didn't.

She didn't want him, not outside of these four walls. Not like that. That was all too 'together'.

He turned his eyes from her and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later and he had finally managed to reach the end of a long and stressful week with only slight personal discomfort at work, largely due to the two of them having never been alone in the same room.

Neither had mentioned what had happened, neither he assumed had wanted to.

He shouldn't have said what he said. He berated himself. He blamed the whiskey, his weakness, himself.

Not that he still didn't think that she was wrong.

It was late. He had a 7.30 meeting with the DG in the morning and before that he had a huge pile of prospective new applicants to sift through. He should go to bed, he hadn't been sleeping well. He would, he concluded, as soon as he had reached the bottom of this particular glass and it would be a shame to rush it as it was a new and rather expensive bottle.

He sat, swilling the liquid, imagining the heather, wondering if he would ever have the chance to truly appreciate the Highlands. Walking, not too far, perhaps to the nearest pub and then back to a cottage, isolated, rugged, idyllic.

Walking … with someone.

It was then that his reverie on the subject was disturbed. He shook his head and berated himself, not for the first time.

He opened the door, her hand was raised ready to ring the bell again.

"Ruth?"

"May I come in?"

"Is everything okay?" he asked, concerned. She had never been here before, never stood on his doorstep, let alone crossed the threshold.

She nodded, business like.

He stood aside and closed the door behind her.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked as he followed her into the living room.

Once more she nodded, "Please."

He hated this. He hated this politeness. This forced what ever it was. As he poured the measure he concluded why she was here. To clear the air, to smooth things out, to find a way to work together.

The problem was that he wasn't convinced there was a way.

The malt slid down her throat in one slug. She offered the glass back to him.

"Another?" he asked surprised.

"No," she said, pulling a face suggesting she had not enjoyed it.

He gently dropped the glass to the tray.

That's when he felt the heaviness. That's when he felt the sudden pressure on his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

He looked down. He felt the heat and the weight.

Her hand was resting in the centre of his chest.

He looked at it confused and then at her.

When finally she spoke it was quietly.

"Show me, Harry."

Her eyes were fixed on her hand. On the man beneath it. On the material of his shirt. On the button that rested against her palm. On the rise and fall of his chest.

She looked up at him.

"Show me _more_."

For nearly all his adult life he had been trained to neutralise his expression: to give nothing away. With her it was like breathing; they had guarded the extent of their feelings for as long as they had known one another. All the tells, all the giveaway manifestations of emotion, all were protected behind the façade they practiced and honed almost to perfection.

But in this singular moment there was not one inch of Harry Pearce's face that did not betray the open astonishment of what he was experiencing.

Her fingers flexed across his chest, her palm spread.

An invitation.

Awaiting a reply.


	4. Chapter 4

He stared at her, wanting to ask why? Why she had changed her mind? Why now? Was this going to be another step forward to be imminently followed by a three step regression?

And as he stared, he recognised the subtle doubts already beginning to creep into her eyes.

The weight began to lift from his chest as she retracted the touch and pulled back.

His left hand snapped out stopping it, preventing its escape.

His right reached forward, thumb skimming her cheek as his fingers wound through and into her hair, spreading across the back of her head and neck. Swiftly he pulled her towards him until he could feel her breath on his face.

One kiss.

He was out of practice.

One single kiss.

Perhaps the only chance he would ever have.

One single, life saving kiss to convince her.

No pressure.

His lips took hers. It was a kiss that told of passion, of sincerity; that shouted love and need; that spoke of hope; that suggested a future; but above everything else that promised more.

When he parted from her, unwillingly, he didn't risk letting go, one hand still cradled in her hair, the other still grasping her fingers in his.

His heart was racing and his head light: if she hadn't been in his arms he would have contemplated having his blood pressure checked, as it was he would happily feel like this always.

Her eyes were shut. For a moment he revelled in watching her but then he began to worry.

"Say something," he said quietly.

She looked up at him slowly, almost blankly.

"Ruth?"

She blinked once, her eyes roaming across his face which was still so close. Almost seeing him for the first time.

"I'm not sure after all the things we've done," she hesitated, "that we deserve a normal life, Harry."

"We're spooks, Ruth, we don't do normal," He lifted her hand and clutched it to his chest.

"And maybe the one thing that we do deserve, is each other."

She smiled slightly.

"You mean no one else would have us?"

"No one else would have _me_."

She laughed.

His right hand slid from her hair and wrapped around her waist, pulling her titer.

"Why did you change your mind?" he asked.

"I thought about what you said. About how I'd feel if you were killed. And I knew I'd have the same regrets."

He nodded, then bent his head, his forehead resting against hers.

"Stay?" he breathed.

She pulled away slightly to look him in the eye.

"Tonight," he whispered.

Her answer was to lean in to kiss him but then she stopped, teasingly.

"What's on offer?"

"More, Ruth," he growled, "A whole world of 'more'."


	5. Epilogue

**A couple of you wanted a conclusion!**

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"I think you'll find, Ruth..." he gasped, "that we couldn't be more together than we are..." he pushed yet deeper still, "...right now."  
And even had she had breath left in her body, or been capable of speech, she could not have argued with that.

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**Thank you, as ever, for your many kind reviews.**


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